Bonds
by Illusionary Ennui
Summary: The sacrifices we make are our burdens to bear, the losses just as a damning. This was not the life she had meant for them, but she would not let them fall - AU, Cullen x F!Inquisitor Trevelyan Mage and Dorian x M!Trevelyan Mage.
1. Ubi Sunt

**Bonds**

_The sacrifices we make are our burdens to bear, the losses just as a damning. This was not the life she had meant for them, but she would not let them fall_. || AU, Cullen x F!Inquisitor Trevelyan Mage and Dorian x M!Trevelyan Mage.

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_An AU where slugette from deviantART's Yvad is Mara's young half-brother, their paths reunited after she retakes Skyhold and the rebel mages join the Inquisition. More or less chronicles their interactions as they try to find their place with the fall of the Circles while learning that they each can have something more than a gilded cage._

_Will be done in small installments as the muse takes me.  
And I've decided on a whim to give the chapters Latin titles. No idea why._

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Author: Illusionary Ennui

Disclaimer: If it's not in the games, codex entries, or the wiki, it's mine. All else, hail to Bioware.

Chapter Rating: T

Chapter Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Tension, Confusion, Anger

Edited: 01.18.2015

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**Ubi Sunt**

_Brother, brother mine  
Huddled in the fallen snow,  
where are you to go?_

Hardly more than a young man, the Commander of the Inquisition's forces eyed the boy where he stood before them in the guard-tower. Very little of Yvad Trevelyan reminded Cullen of the Inquisitor. Yet something lingered in his eyes, even in their amethyst shade rather than the familiar dark amber, which struck him with the same determination and compassion. They were, however, less weathered.

Did they not have enough trouble: Skyhold barely under their control, a bevy of rebels hosted beneath crumbling walls? With the Circle gone, a part of him felt for the mage. He understood the allure of Grand Enchanter Fiona's bid for order among the chaos, of freedom and respect. Had he known of his fellows attacked after he left the Order himself, but what rapport would they have now? It sat in the pit of his stomach, congealing as it mixed with disdain – they had only learned themselves of the bloodshed at Therinfal Redoubt, the few survivors finding sanctuary within the old fortress. In one breath, Cullen was glad for their presence to counterbalance the influx of mages. However, in the next breath, it strained his own resolve – Maker, he could still taste it in the air.

"Know that you will receive no special treatment from me or any under our command. Even if the Grand Enchanter and the Inquisitor may vouch for you."

"I don't expect any," Yvad assured him as he chewed on his lower lip.

His robes, not heavy enough for the mountain weather, shifted with his feet, his balance moved from one foot to the other. A thin hand reached to brush a fallen ebony lock from his eyes. It was his own dreams and demons that called to him from the fallen, Alexius' folly like molten lead worming through his veins. All he craved was their silence and the comfort of the one who mattered most.

"Can I see her?"

"Your sister should be here shortly. Ambassador Montilyet had need of her for another matter."

Leaning to lay his vambrace across his desk, the commander's amber stare fixed the mage in its line. Leather-clad fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the hardwood to hide the subtle twitch of their lengths, the tremors growing worse each day. He knew his duty as he fought to keep his mind in check. His voice hardened, its timbre lowered as if to remind himself of the truth so he would not waver. "First and foremost, the Inquisition takes precedent above our own desires."

Yvad returned the former templar's gaze, full of curious ire. A fire burned in the man's breast, a quiet, building flicker. He had seen it before, the need and fascination. Too many times he saw it dwell in the First Enchanter as he watched his sister grow under Lydia's care, her path dictated by their design. But this man's flame burned with a different light. Softer. Torn. He could not sense the lyrium readily in the commander's blood, but there were chains like it, hooked deeply into both mind and body. Perhaps there was more to him than met the eye? Something held the warrior to the standard of command, masking him in it. But beyond that, Yvad could only guess what lay beyond the golden glare.

"And what of _her_ desires?" Incensed, his emotions simmered near the surface enough for the tingle of magic to ghost across the tips of his fingers. It set his teeth on edge even as instinct brought the Commander snapping to his feet, reaching for the hilt of his sword. No, the man would listen – they both had fought too hard for their ideals. For him, Mara had given Yvad everything in the Circle, gave him peace and strength. How could he let them forget she was as mortal as they were?

"The First Enchanter. The Inquisition. Every one of you try to use her. All she wanted was to help of us, to make things easier for mages AND templars alike."

"And I've given her my promise that such destruction will never happen again. Corypheus may have taken hold of the Order, but I will NOT let their poison go unchecked."

The young Trevelyan stepped back from the low roar. There it was, the same fire of an altered strain. What was this man? More than a commander of a growing army. More than a templar. There were ghosts clawing behind those eyes and something more. What made him burn at the mere mention of his sister's trials? With a measured breath, Yvad allowed his magic fade and his mind to calm, sifting through query after query.

"What do you –"

"Yvad?"

All his bravado drained at the mere sound of his name, so soft as it fell from a welcome voice. He turned to see only Mara, not the tower around them, the commander's dusty military tomes, nor the man in stranger garb beside her. All Yvad saw was his sister, all apprehension and kindness. Unlike their elder brother set to inherit what they could not, their only tied was the blood of Bann Trevelyan alone. He saw their father in her face, a fleeting memory, but he cared little for that man. He care for Mara, not the nobility had had been born into. Even his own mother had loved her, no more than an elven mistress herself to their father. It was she who hid their magic as they grew together, learned together, until their father banished them to the Circle, first her and he only a few years later. She was the one who saw him through the trials, through the hurt and fear.

He wanted to speak, to tell her how much he had missed her, how he had feared for her. Even the Bann had thought her dead until the rumours became truth and inspiration. He had wanted to leave the rebels then, to flock to Haven. He never reached her in Redcliffe, held back by Fiona for his own safety. But he was here now – he wanted to help.

"Mara, I –"

"What were you thinking?!" Her righteous wrath mingled with her relief. Expecting a scolding, he bristled only to feel her arms fold around him, barely giving him room to breathe into the tangles of auburn. Whatever argument he could muster lost itself in her embrace, as comforting as he remembered. He forgot everything save that warmth.

"Now, don't smother the lad. I imagine he's been through enough."

Like spice and dark allure, the other man's accent pierced Yvad's haze. Further north than their own. Seheron? No, too far. Tevinter. The subtle, regal airs filled each word, distinct but telling. Yvad managed to pull away just enough to meet the steel-grey eyes smiling at him from behind his sister. All sun-kissed skin and stylish coif, every buckle and filigree polished and fine. Even in the aura of their own, his magic and stature stood out like a challenge, something worth reaching for. Who was this mage?

Courage and ease took Yvad then, his own fire fanned.

"And miss out on all the fun?" He flashed the Tevinter a smile of his own, his words found again. "Not a chance."

**To be continued...**

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**Author's Note: **Again, this is an AU, a what-if. And admittedly, I don't know how it's going to play out, but it should focus more on the familial bonds and history between Yvad Trevelyan (belonging to slugette) and Inquisitor Mara Trevelyan as well as their relationships with those they care about and their choices.

Will be done in small installments as the muse takes me. And I've decided on a whim to give the chapters Latin titles. No idea why.

Any road, I intend to work on this when I don't have the muse for my **Order and Chaos** series, probably even after that one is finished.


	2. Lacrimae Rerum

**Chapter Warnings:** Hurt/Comfort, Tension, Confusion, Anger, Torture, Blood, Abandonment

**Edited:** 01.28.2015

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**Lacrimae Rerum**

_There are tears for things,  
for all we've lost and weathered.  
Whose blood stains our hands?_

Inside the Circle, they had had so little. A little trinket or book bought from a traveling merchant, or something crafted by one of their fellows' hands. Even those of noble blood thought little of the extravagance gathered in Skyhold. His robe dragged on fine Orlesian rug thrown down to ward away the hard stone's cold. Bare were the bookshelves that had been lugged into place, but soon Yvad knew they would be brimming with Mara's favourite tales of dragons and knights, perhaps even well-inked maps and enchantments. Already papers lay in disorganized piles, haphazard enough that one flicker of his magic might topple them.

Candlelight painted them in pleasant shades, the night growing longer. Outside, she bore the mantle of the Inquisitor with a strange stiffness, but with him in that sanctuary, he watched her cast it aside and flop on the great bed. The lavish silks flowed beneath a dirty nail as he dragged it over their tight, fanciful weave. A maid must have made up the bed, he noted - Mara had thrown down decorum and preferred ease over regime when the Circles fell. How many times had he found her sleeping in the same clothes, the same mussed nest of mended blankets for days before the Conclave?

"You might want to rein in your Ambassador." A lazier length traced the inlaid gold of the headboard, only the slightest of scratches in the ivory paint where the labour had manoeuvred the frame into her quarters. On quiet feet, a blessing of his mother's elven roots, Yvad shuffled around its edge to stretch out beside her, unruly ebony strands pooling in loose curls around his head. All around them was the same austere, elegant beauty Bann Casimir Trevelyan possessed even as the curves and whorls of Orlais etched themselves beneath his touch.

Would the man even acknowledge them now, each risen to a station beyond fate?

"You're thinking of my father, aren't you?"

_You know my mind too well, sister._

"He stopped being your father a long time ago." Yvad's palm sparked with electric tendrils, the storm magic called to the flare of his emotions. His fingers curled around its orb, the pale blue-white tongues harmless to him as he let its light wash their skin in its glow, bleeding away restrained indignation with each flicker. Less slender than his, Mara's fingers reached up, the sparks dancing across from fingertip to fingertip. Her magic ran not as raw as his, but it had the same power, that same primal aspect even as she favoured the more spiritual and winter auras, jade and the dark blue of lazurite rather than the violet and silverite of his own, together a forest after the rain. The orb tumbled into her palm and with a gentle _hiss_ and _sizzle_, it faded by her will into a veil of frost and with it, the brand of his rage.

"Better?"

She had missed this, missed that lofty scent of ozone, that unbridled passion he wore like his own armour - for all its cheek and worth, it had kept him alive.

Frost crusted her fingers as she crafted a dragon from the icy remnants of her brother's magic, its filigreed wings and needle fangs almost lifelike. But like all mortal things, it would only last until its power dimmed. Mara breathed across it and the whole shattered, a flurry of beauty in reflecting crystal rather than a mere puddle - a pleasant death.

So like her.

In the more delicate enchantments her excellence thrived where his revelled in evocation, the erratic call of ebb and tide. But she had had the time, had the patience for it where he had not. Perhaps that was why they worked so easily together, like a lightning strike to a grounding staff.

"A little."

Angled towards him and propped on one elbow, her hand smoothed over his shoulder, its bulk thinner than when they parted so many months ago. His amethyst gaze seemed tired, worn by burdens but brightened by his return to a familiar stay. Where her features manifested as earthy and soft, freckled by birth and the unfamiliar sunlight outside the tower, his were sharper and paler, named exotic by high cheekbones and curious irises. But that softness, that kindness writ in her countenance had always given him comfort.

During their youth, they had always been together, the second child meant as a pawn for the Great Game and the half-elven bastard. They never saw it as such, more content with what they had rather than the future. Their elder brother, heir to the Trevelyan estate, cared more for them than their father but love carried only so much weight in the struggle for power. If there was a good man of that nobility untried by the Game, Tristan Alun held such a title. Together, they grew, he their voice for freedom and equality within a cautious sphere of his own influence, innocence shielded. They wanted for nothing. Happiness lay there in that acceptance, the tender ties they shared clung to like faith.

If only they had known better…

_In the moonlight, she wept for herself, for the path stolen from her grasp and for the searing lashes her brother nursed for her sake at the Bann's command. For all the pleading and power, Tristan could not dissuade the wishes of a zealous man and paid dearly for his cheek among nobility - they were children no longer._

_The deal struck its chord, the ink barely dry under coercion, her name signed in an indignant scrawl. Three years, her allowance. Her fate: endear herself to many a noble house for the prosperity of their own and garner the eye of some nobleman himself or offer herself to the Chantry under the Trevelyan tithe by her sixteenth nameday._

_Choose neither?_

_Exile from their lands, stripped of title and ties._

_What kind of cruelty was that, her virtue's future cast like lots, some traded trinket for favour? What kind of man, even one endowed by the Chantry, would whore his daughter for pride or proof of fealty to a dying breed?_

_She may have not cared for those last things, but she refused to surrender her family for their promise. Nor would she have those she loved sacrifice for her in return. Tristan's wounds from the guard-captain's whip would heal, yes. But the scars would last - a steep price. Mara bore their sin as her own as she tended them, the cloths stained scarlet and the open flesh smothered in a miasma of elfroot and spindleweed, until their sting lulled him into a fitful slumber. A kiss left upon his sweating brow, she slipped away to sob and pray only to bring forth a more terrifying truth._

_Her late mother's garden glowed so beautifully that night when her magic's first breath whispered._

_It was their thirteenth year._

_Yvad had found her huddled among Rosette de Beaumont's roses, the Orlesian buds blooming in the dead of winter where their vibrant crimson and pink shades held no match for the colour bleeding into tear-polished cheeks. Even he sensed that aura of magic, the hair at his nape rising to its subtle verve wrapping them and the garden in its vibe._

_Beautiful. Frightening. Damning._

**_Andraste, preserve them!_**

_Quicker than silver, he had roused his mother, her plaited tresses like woven obsidian threads and her smile like spring, to the girl's side. Her pale, tapered ear belied her elven heritage beneath the unforgiving moon as she threw her shawl over shaking shoulders. With grace and sweeter ken, Lady Vianne led them all back into the grand house, the painful story told in hushed, sombre tones. The shadows their shroud, the old east wing swallowed them up, its ancient halls granted to the Bann's mistress where she reigned over its halls and the servants, her mind educated and her beauty revered. Their Lord prized her even after all these years. Yet, Yvad held no kinship for his sire. Only Mara. His mother had loved her as much as her son for the compassion the Trevelyan girl gave them, their family as much her own. No more than a broken doll, Mara slept in their arms like they were her only anchor to a fading world slipping through her fingers. That anchor held only one other soul, one they trusted beyond their cautious bonds. Thus, Tristan swore himself to their cause, his back still oozing beneath its weals the same kind eyes of their sister's staring back them – the line of de Beaumont favoured him little save for that warmth, the steel-blue Casimir's shade._

But they all knew how fragile was the lie that suspended her fate.

Clanking and hard-edged, the silvered templars came for her three days later, the loose-tongues of servants condemning her to that gilded cage where his mother could hide her no more. Sequestered away in his study, the Bann never showed his face that morning, his own host of guards seeing to the Order's owed obeisance instead. Yvad had wanted her to fight, but Mara only kissed his cheek and his mother hid her own tears as she kissed his sister's brow. Into their hands, she let herself be led. Their brother had held him fast, hands tight on his arms, as one of the templars hoisted her up onto his horse, no ceremony or care as he swung himself up behind her slight frame.

Neither he nor his half-brother wagered they would ever see her face again, the red-rimmed eyes and the sadness like a mourning veil over her face etched into their memories.

How could Yvad have known he would follow barely a cycle of seasons later?

_Books, histories and dusty tomes of ancestry, filled the walls. Wrinkled, manicured digits lay flat, a twitch in their lengths the barest hint of strain. Aglow, a decanter of Antivan brandy painted a dull red-orange swath across a half-finished letter to some merchant. But the numbers and neat loops of Nevarran script hold little interest for Lord Casimir's bastard._

_"The watch informs that you've been picking fights with the templar recruits in the village again, boy. Your sister is gone - leave it be. You know well the price for meddling in the affairs of one's betters. Guard-Captain Ghilroi has certainly not forgotten his work nor has my **son**." His Lordship's quill flourished as he finished another line. Not one glance spared itself toward his bastard until he spoke again, his tone even darker. "You serve this house at my discretion and you could earn a greater lot if you had half a mind to, perhaps even join the Order if you had any skill with a sword. Nonetheless, I will **not **have this family's name soiled because a mere boy could not control his actions. Maker, has your mother not taught warned you of the value even your words possess?"_

_"But those whoresons called her names, my Lord! They said she's cursed by the Maker!" Shaking fists balled at his sides, the nails bitten deep into the milky skin of his palms. To invoke his own heir's pain and dismiss the loss of his daughter – damn him! "And no, I will **NOT** be joining their bloody Order! How could you even suggest that after what happened to her!"_

_Thunder rumbled, a growing cadence. The books and inkwells rattled on their perches, echoes of what thrums in the very air. Bann Trevelyan leapt to his feet, his grey eyes narrowed on Yvad and his heavy chair screeching across the lacquered floor. Dread mounted, higher and louder, trembling on the roll of an unseen storm._

_"Boy, what have you done?!"_

_The power pulsed, a near-tangible ripple through the air. The young lad's fingers clenched, his mind abuzz as he felt it lance through him. He breathed it out and on it, the darkened clouds conjured. With another crack, as if the Maker Himself had opened up the sky inside that luxurious space of rule, rain poured into his father's study to ruin both the letter and his Lordship's so-called _discretion_._

Like his sister, his wayward emotions condemned him to the same fate.

His mother could not save him or spare him from Lord Casimir's ire for even a single day. The templars arrived once the sun kissed the horizon for one last moment, their armour gleaming in the twilight. Bann Trevelyan did not grant him any comfort as he had his own daughter, his bastard blood worth even less than hers to him. A severe, scathing decree locked Yvad inside the tiny gaol of the barracks, a space usually slated for the drunken and the unruly, until his jailors set their flag. Lady Vianne sat beside him all the while, an ashen statue with half-lidded eyes whose silent strength kept his tears from falling, from showing her his fear. She knew his fate and their bond frayed to its end, but she could not voice it – she did not wish him to how much pain cut through a mother's heart before she lost her dear son forever.

Down in the dusty dark, his brother came before they took him away, a single dagger pressed into Yvad's hands.

_"Our sister will be waiting for you, but I do not know how what lies ahead." Tristan reached out to clasp Yvad's forearm in familiar reverence, the elder's span calloused by a sword hilt and broader than his own. It was warm and bolstering, something that brothers should share among such trials. Yvad knew it would be the last kindness the Trevelyan heir could ever offer him. For the first time, however, he did not see his Lordship so readily in his brother's face as he had before. In that span, he saw only his brother and the ghost of his sister without the shadows of the single tie that bound them. "Just try not to set the world on fire if you can."_

Jackals, every last one of them.

The dagger was the first thing they robbed. For its loss, the templars wore a host of mottled bruises and callous scrapes by the time they had thrown him in a cell, the tower of Ostwick's Circle rising up into the starlit blackness.

By then, the fight in him distilled. How could he muster that much willpower when he had nothing left? One of the templars, a vicious gleam in steely eyes and a wicked hand, had drained him of every drop of mana he had, even so little in its seedling state. It felt like white fire searing away his very blood, his mind reeling and his body aching as every sense and fibre set itself alight. The beating afterward dulled thanks to that small mercy, but the hurt endured long after. Every nerve screamed in that dank, empty place until their cries rasped and the even sound of a manic heartbeat grew weaker.

And then she was there, cool jade and blue wrapped around him. No joy of reunion formed Mara's mask then, not even the false contentment she mustered for the father who never said his goodbyes that last day. This was not the fate not the one she had wished for them.

Her magic soothed what it could touch. His mind calmed, the chorus of rage lessened to a murmur. In her touch lingered something lonelier as she supported him from the darkness. Fear? Hopelessness? Disillusion? He could not name it, but she flourished in that single year without him and earned her place. What wonders she could summon with a thought. Could he do the same in that wretched prison? For over a decade, that became their life, her healing his hurts as he buried greater ones. The studies brought him nothing but headaches, his Harrowing barely passed. Had it not been for her, would he be standing now? His magic had always been as wild as his temper, but he cleaved to his own talents. How many storms had he excited in the courtyard, that one place of nature and peace while he lounged in the branches of the ancient willow, if only to feel free to know the rain as it was, to imagine himself beyond those walls?

That place would always be his prison, marking him. Even in Skyhold, every creak and clatter of metal set his teeth on edge. Every hooded glance of a templar brought his blood to boiling.

As gentle as a halla's nuzzle, Mara combed through the dark strands when the man's jaw locked down until the veins of his neck made their own shadows.

"Stop it."

It chilled more than the hoarfrost rimming her fingertips – she knew what scars ran through her brother's soul. What nightmare would claim him in the Fade when he slept that night as they dredged up memories best left buried?

* * *

_Knight-Captain Ifan Griffith, a name born of true ignominy._

_A decorated templar of the Ostwick Order, the first time Ser Ifan cuffed Yvad and led his charge to the dungeons to cool his heels every time there sounded a rumour of insubordination. Day in and day out, Mara lied to herself that discipline had its place when the lad's ire led to mistakenly burned skin and singed armour, but somehow, it seemed more._

_The years grew longer, a steady march. Mara kept Yvad close, guiding his studies beside her own students, rising in the eyes of the First Enchanter to earn both favour and protection. Yet, their bond carried on. Influence, weak but growing, warded away the more fanatical of their guards until not even her mentor could allay the savage beast set against Yvad alone._

_Meek as autumn, the templars never sought his sister ill as she allayed their hurts with the same indiscriminate tenderness she assured for those of her fellows. Mara Trevelyan, a healer through and through. Naïve. Idealistic. Peacekeeper. To her, those of the Order served a noble purpose, lives of simple work sacrificed to protect them and the people._

_But how many times had they all abused that gentle hand, no thanks offered? Yvad cautioned her daily that her wasted her compassion, but she did not heed him. Trapped in that gilded cage, balance needed to be struck for them to prosper, for her to accept the bars._

_But what if she had heeded him?_

_When she finally bore witness to that violence a single templar wrought, denial filled her soul even as something darker weaves itself a place. Wary of his superior's dark pleasures, one of the Order secreted her to Yvad when the rest lay in fitful slumber. Into the dank maw they delved, a stark, twisted mirror to the gleaming marble and innocence above. It stunk of blood and despair, urine and vomit like musty perfumes._

_Heart rent asunder and trembling, she could not decipher how long it had been since Ser Ifan assured her that all was well. Days? Weeks? Left alone to madness, forced to grapple for life and heal his own wounds with the magic she taught him and others only to have them opened again and more slashed beside them? The chains, laced with lyrium, chafed the reedy wrists raw and bloody, shining beneath their rusted hinges where they hung from the damp walls. The remnants of his robes lay in tatters around emaciated ribs patterned in mauve and sickly green, stained by sweat and refuse._

_How many years had he concealed it, protecting her, spinning tales of scuffles and pranks rather than torture? How many lies had she swallowed, too trusting?_

_All Yvad knew was that some men relished in the suffering of those given to their power, but power corrupts even devout hearts. They worship in blood to please the gods of themselves where the blade became their creed and woeful cries, their hymnal chants._

_He never forgave._

_He never forgot._

**_What if I cut out those pretty eyes? Can you grow them back?_**

* * *

Death would have been better, but neither had been so lucky.

The war's chorus reached them. Grace stayed death while the rest of them burned. Only a few of the Order gave them mercy but indiscriminating swords and relentless magic found them just the same. Mages and templars both, too many died for nothing more than standing in the tide.

Fear lanced when chaos reigned, a blade raised against Yvad once again. He was a boy again, trapped for existing. A dozen spells tripped on his tongue, but none answered, stifled. His heart beat slower, the battle around him stretched to an icy stillness

And then she was there, always at his back.

Then First Enchanter stole her from him. His life fractured, shards hardening into vengeance - the Conclave left in ruins. True freedom would have been a blessing, a chance for him to breathe without a whetted blade at his nape and worry in his sister's heart. What did they even pray?

For so long he had thought her dead, his fellows given to anger and loss. Her mentor had been the first of them to die when some turned to demons. Wretched creatures, every one of them. But others begged the templars for mercy - they were no better. Most found no peace either way. He slept easier with each kill, each life the chaos took to survive.

Had she seen him then, would she look at him as she did now?

Months ground away, bloodied and cold. Hunger gnawed. Grand Enchanter Fiona's offer gave them all a glimmer of hope, but Magister Alexius poisoned it as well. But the rumours of the Inquisition rekindled hope's life even as the Venatori doused that freedom in flames.

And like his saviour of old, Mara set herself like a beacon before him, all light and controlled vengeance, and stole the chains of Tevinter from them all. He had wanted to find her then, to fall at her feet and know her kindness and comfort once more - were they both not weary of fighting? Herald or some holy thing, she was his sister first. Yet for unspoken purpose, Fiona denied her new protégé a place among those sent to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He sulked and whined in the camp, lightning crackling in his grasp to mediate the manic storm of his mind.

The cry rose up behind a roar of thunder that shook the world; the sky was whole. How long did he stare up at the emptiness, the venomous greens wiped from the clouds and stars until ashes and fire rained from the heavens.

Haven burned.

Bleeding. Crying. Dying.

Among the huddled masses clawing for life, his heart seized. Why did the Maker only take from him? Yet when he saw the Commander carry her from the blizzard, alive?

_Maker, why are You so cruel?_

"It's nothing." Like he had when they were children, he tugged her into the envelope of his arms and sucked in the scent of sandalwood in her hair - he missed the honeysuckle she used to wear. Drawing his feet up until they no longer hung over the too-soft mattress, he tucked her under his chin. He let out a yawn, a forced but telling thing. "I'm just glad you're safe, sister. But I'm tired, now. You can yell at me in the morning. "

Try as she might, Mara's chiding dissolved from her tongue. To scold him, to beg for answer would yield her nothing. Having her brother in her grasp, safe and whole, was enough.

And so they slept.

**To be continued...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Again, this is an AU, a what-if. I had not expected Yvad (and their elder brother, Tristan) to become so prominent – I only hope I do him justice. Poor baby! I'm sorry, Slugette! But he and Dorian should get some time to talk in the next chapter… I hope. I'm still kinda winging this one.


End file.
